Paul Doherty - The Darkening Glass

We continued on our way, slightly subdued. We rested for a while at two taverns, and just before the sunset rode into Deddington, a sleepy hamlet, no more than a long line of cottages with their vegetable gardens, dovecotes, beehives and pig pens stretched out along the main thoroughfare. Just before the crossroads stood a spacious tavern boasting the title of the Pilgrims’ Final Rest. We passed this, watched by the cottars and their families, and made our way up the slight hill to the parish church of St Oswald, an ancient edifice built of dark grey ragstone with a black-tiled roof and a lofty bell tower that brooded over the great cemetery surrounding the church. A little further on was the rectory, a pleasant two-storey building with a red-slated roof, its smartly painted front door approached by a flight of steps. Both the rectory and its boundary wall, which circled a cobbled yard at the front and gardens at the side and rear, were of honey-coloured Cotswold stone, which gleamed gold in the dying rays of the sun. Pembroke’s outriders had galloped ahead to warn the rector that Pembroke, who held the advowson to the church, intended to reside there. The stern-faced priest, his robes marked with candle grease, was waiting to welcome his patron. Of course the rectory was too small for everyone. Pembroke dispatched some of his retinue back to the Pilgrims’ Final Rest; others camped in the churchyard and a few in the small pavilions of the rectory garden.

I was given an evil-smelling garret just beneath the eaves. Once I’d satisfied my hunger on the meagre platters the rector had laid out in the buttery, I decided to wander the garden to study its various herbs and plants. In fact, I wanted to be alone, well away from the rest, so that I could concentrate on unravelling the mysteries. Moreover, it was a beautiful evening and the rectory garden was rich in trees, apple, pear and black mulberry, which lay at the back approached through gorgeous chequerboard beds of beautiful flowers: primrose, colombi, purple iris and the like. I was immersed in studying these when chaos returned, slipping in like a thief in the night.

Truly scripture says, ‘We know not the day nor the hour.’ A rider claiming he’d been sent by the chamberlain of Pembroke’s manor at Bampton came thundering into the yard, yelling that he had the most urgent news for the earl. Pembroke hurried down. The messenger, breathless after his ride, clutched his saddle horn and gasped out how the lady Pembroke had fallen grievously ill and was asking for him. Pembroke, God forgive him, was besotted with his wife. He never stayed to question, but immediately ordered his household squires to saddle their horses, sending one of them into the village to collect those who’d had been quartered at the tavern. Gaveston came down, offering to accompany the earl. Pembroke refused, claiming that his senior household knight, Sir William Ferrers, would be in charge.

Ferrers, God bless him, did not have the wit to realise what was happening. Jovial and trusting, he assured us that there would be nothing to fear and that we would soon be about our own business. Demontaigu, however, thought otherwise. He firmly believed that mischief was planned. He insisted the rectory gates be locked, and all doors bolted and sealed, but it was to no avail. Pembroke left, taking the greater part of his retinue; those left in the rectory were a mere handful, with a few camped in nearby fields. Sure enough, just before dawn we were aroused from our beds by the clatter of arms. I hastily dressed, went downstairs and peered through a casement window. The yard in front of the house thronged with men all wearing Warwick’s livery. Demontaigu clattered down, saying there were more in the street outside. Gaveston, dressed in his nightgown, a robe about his shoulders, joined us in the small rectory hall, demanding something to eat and drink. The rector brought this even as the noise outside grew.

‘What shall we do?’ Gaveston yelled.

Ferrers began to arm, only to realise that any defence would be fruitless. The clatter of mail, the neigh of horses and the shouts of men from the yard rose sharply, followed by a pounding on the door. Gaveston, myself, Demontaigu, Dunheved and Ferrers clustered around the hall table just as Warwick’s voice rang out like a funeral peal for all to hear.

‘My lord Gaveston.’ The words were rich with sarcasm. ‘I think you know who I am. I am your Black Dog of Arden. Get up, traitor, you are taken!’

This was followed by a further pounding. Warwick’s men then seized a bench from the garden and smashed it against the door. The rector wailed pitifully at Ferrers, begging him to open up. The noose had tightened. We were trapped. Those pilgrims behind us, those landless men so curious about us, had been Warwick’s spies. Yet, there was also something a little more refined, skilful about this trap. How did Warwick know that Pembroke had left? Was the earl’s wife grievously ill at Bampton? Had Pembroke broken his word? I doubted it. We had all been duped, Pembroke especially, and there was nothing more we could do.

‘Open the door,’ I whispered.

Gaveston rose, fingers to his lips.

‘Open the door, my lord, there is no point in resistance,’ I insisted. ‘Warwick may well use that to kill you out of hand.’

‘In God’s name,’ the rector wailed.

Ferrers did not wait any longer. He left the hall, shouting at a few of Pembroke’s retainers clustered in the vestibule, their swords drawn, to open the door. Chains were released, locks turned and Warwick’s men poured through the rectory. Warwick himself strode into the hall. We were ignored, totally unharmed. Indeed, Warwick pointed at us and shouted that we were not to be touched on pain of forfeiture of life and limb. Poor Gaveston was different. He was immediately seized and manhandled. Warwick pushed his way through the throng and punched him in the face, his gauntleted fist smashing Gaveston’s nose and bruising his lips. The fallen favourite was dragged out into the cobbled yard and his cloak stripped off for him to be exposed to Warwick’s troops, bare-legged, barefooted, dressed only in his nightgown. He was in a state of shock. He tried to speak, but no sound came. One of Warwick’s retainers imitated him, much to the merriment of others. I hurried to kneel at Warwick’s feet, to beg for mercy for this fallen lord brought so low so quickly. Demontaigu also tried to help, shouting at Warwick to remember Pembroke’s oath. The earl’s henchmen just pushed him aside, whilst Warwick, softly patting me on the head, helped me to rise. One glance from those soul-dead eyes confirmed Gaveston’s fate. No mercy was to be asked, as none would be given. The earl just nodded and gently pushed me away. Pembroke’s retainers, to their credit, tried to remonstrate, their swords drawn, but Warwick had brought a host of men-at-arms and archers, and resistance was futile.

Gaveston was forced to stand in the centre of the yard. Some of Warwick’s retainers pelted him with every piece of filth they could lay their hands on, whilst the rest bayed for his blood. Eventually Gaveston just sank to his knees. Warwick thrust a heavy crown of nettles and briars on to his head, then he was placed on a ribbed nag, facing its tail, fastened securely and led around the yard to the taunts and jeers of Warwick’s men. Gaveston just slumped, head down. Warwick gestured at us.

‘You may go,’ he shouted. ‘This peasant of Gascony, this witch’s brat no longer needs you. Do you, sir?’

Gaveston raised his head, trying to see through the tangle hanging over his battered face. He searched the line of faces until he found mine, his bloodied lips mouthing my name. I stepped forward.

‘My lord of Warwick, this does you no credit,’ I declared. ‘Remember Pembroke’s oath. Remember too what his grace the king will make of this.’